At the core was Crosslin, his partner Rollie Rohm, and Rohm’s young son, Robert. It wasn’t hard - with his white beard and ponytail, Leinbach was one part good-ol-boy, one part hippie a northern Willie Nelson. I tried to imagine what he looked like back then. “There was a real good community on the farm,” Leinbach explained to me as we sat in his garage this past August, about 20 miles from where the farm had burned. The crew erected a full stage, and a general store with a fully functioning cafe and game room. The event kept getting bigger - something Crosslin was always pushing for, Leinbach said. The next year, the event was large enough that the Michigan Militia was hired to provide security. A $10 entrance fee got you access to, well, not much. On Labor Day of 1995, the farm’s crew held a sort of dry run. We were doing what we had to do with what was at our disposal to do it,” Leinbach said. It took them a few tries to get it right. “Those people loved Rainbow Farm dearly.” Literally, a joint effort,” Leinbach said, emphasizing a pun that’ll never go out of style. Leinbach, along with a group of regulars, helped him turn Rainbow Farm from a haphazard campsite to one of the most well-known marijuana gatherings in the country. Purchased by Crosslin in 1993, he transformed the overgrown acreage. To be fair, Rainbow Farm was more than a party.
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